


Resolutions

by TheosOxonian



Series: The Wings of the Morning [2]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 18:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheosOxonian/pseuds/TheosOxonian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robbie thinks about the past and the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resolutions

**Author's Note:**

> So here is the companion piece to 'Saving Grace' which thanks to the lovely Wendymr I have managed to link together in a series.
> 
> The series title is taken from Psalm 139: 8-10.
> 
>    
>  _"If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there._  
>  _If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;_  
>  _Even there shall they hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me."_
> 
>  
> 
> The last one was a Christmas fic posted a bit late, so now I bring you a New Year's fic posted a bit early. You don't have to read the previous one to make sense of this, but they are supposed to work together - goodness knows if they do! This was a lot tougher to write than the last one, and I know Robbie's voice is a bit off, but according to my quality control I'm to leave it as it is. So sorry if it's not quite up to snuff.

It’s been a mild, easy kind of a year. Rain in January and a damp, dreary summer, no snow at Christmas and now, at the year’s end, the thermostat’s creeping toward double figures. Even work’s been quiet and relatively simple, well Oxford simple anyhow, but they’ve solved the murders, filed the paperwork and passed it all off to the CPS. They’re comfortable too, the pair of them, easy in the rhythm and rhyme of their life; cups of tea in the morning, supermarket shop on a Friday, laundry and lists and phone calls to Lyn. It’s a small, gentle little world. Too small, he sometimes fears; frustrating and confining for a man who strains to understand the divine and holds whole worlds in his head. But James had laughed when he mentioned it, started talking about Chinese curses and interesting times, green grass and the joy of contentment. He’d let the words fall over him, watching instead the play of light against the bedroom wall, content to listen to the cadence and tone of his voice and catalogue all the ways it lit him up.

Tonight James is curled on the floor by his feet, sheet music spread out across the carpet, pencil between his lips. Something complicated and choral that he’s playing around with; transposing, counterpoint, tension, progression. Words and meanings he never knew before James, so many things he would never have known. The shades of his eyes and the shadows of his soul, the lines and length of his body. He’s wrapped around the guitar, cradling it as he always does when they meld and merge together. The lines of him are different from this angle and he looks smaller somehow, all creased up and contained. He reaches out to touch, the backs of his fingers falling down neck and spine, coming to rest where he’s pressed against the sofa. James shivers but doesn’t stop and Robbie works himself into the cushions, squirreling and shifting until he’s warm and comfortable. The chords break gently against his skin, loose, rippling tremors that fill and flood his mind. 

Being with James is a revelation, he’s learned things about himself he never knew. Sex with Val had always been pleasantly habitual; cosy and comfortable interludes, fitted in around bath times and story times and early morning call outs. He'd never been one to get off on dominating a woman, still flinches just thinking about it, but pressing James’ wrists into the pillow as he moves inside him, holding him down, feeling the stretch and strain as he moves against him, well that does all manner of things to his insides. The lad likes it too, and though he doesn't understand the fervent edge to his gaze and the fierce flavour of his kisses, he long ago learned he’s hopeless in the face of James’ need and doesn’t even pretend to resist. Instead he simply delights in him, drinks in the breathless imprecations that fall from his lips like the instinctive prayers of a penitent, pure and clear in their intent, drinks him in until they’re both giddy and full and spilling over with joy.

It’s heading up to midnight now, the crackle and hiss of fireworks leaking in from outside, a fractured kaleidoscope of colour against the pale curtains. Val always used to make him pick a resolution and he’d dutifully promise to drink less, be home more. He’d break it a week later, sat in a pub with Morse, nursing a pint and ignoring his misgivings. Val deserved his company and Morse needed it, no way in the world to satisfy and sate both. With James there’s no conflict, at least not like that, work and home in happy union. The shadings and the colours change, the composition alters day by day, but it’s the same picture, the two of them, side by side, easy and steady and sure. They’re talking about allowing marriage now, he hears about it on the telly. He’s wondered about it, wondered if James would want it, wondered if he even could be a husband again. 

First time out he’d tried to do it properly, drove to a nice restaurant, box in his inside pocket, nestled carefully against his heart. But in the end he'd been too afraid of public rejection; asked her in the car instead, sat outside her parent’s place, rain beating an irregular rhythm against the windscreen. She’d laughed a little, kissed him and told him he was a daft bloody bugger and of course she would. Registry office at the Civic Centre and a posh car to the King’s Head; open sandwiches, tiered cake and pints from the bar. Speech by her dad, school friends crammed into the back room and music on the juke box, what counted as a good do in ’81. 

James seems ill at ease every time it gets mentioned, changes the channel or goes to make a drink. He’d thought it was the seminary at first, the longer they’re together the deeper a shadow it seems to cast. But in the end he realises that it’s not the idea that discomfits him, quite the opposite really, it’s the possibility that it might be taken away from him. Because the lad’s eyes linger on the screen and there’s an oddly wistful look that crosses his face, like a kid afraid reach out for what he wants, fearing censure and rejection and denial. Turns his stomach, hurts him to see James like that. Twisted up and about by robed idiots in daft hats that should no longer have any say in his life. Hates to see the quick, sharp little stabs of pain when they stand up and calmly condemn. Hurts to see the remembrances of every other thing he’s been denied in life echo through his eyes. And sometimes it’s like they’re transported back five years with James looking at him like he used to do; sideways glances filled with longing and fear and hope and sadness. 

Big Ben’s on the screen now, spliced with the image of a chanting crowd. James lays down the guitar and turns to him, rises to his knees and takes his face in his hands, soft lips and a caressing tongue, an urgent, whispered vow. The knowledge breaks over him gently, because oh dear god does he love him. Loves the feel of his skin and the smell of his hair, loves the slow, thrilling promise in his touch, the twist of anticipation, joy and desire as they press together. Loves the lists and the shopping and all the worlds that spin through his head. His own vow is silent, but nonetheless faithful. One day he’ll do it because James deserves the world, deserves all the possibilities he dares believe to be realised. One day he’ll give them the chance to lay claim to each other, before God and the saints and the whole company of heaven. One day he’ll lay himself before James; knees and nerves, hope in his heart and a plea on his lips. Subjugation, submission and acceptance; perfect surrender to his will.


End file.
